


Demands, Denial, and Debatable Ethics

by hanzhoe



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, M/M, Morally Grey Reader, couples that kill together stay together, finangled timelines because i dont care dont @ me, gender neutral reader, in medias res or bust, mentions of gore, they're in love but they're not happy about it and absolutely refuse to acknowledge it, this bitch icy.....HEAT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-04 12:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanzhoe/pseuds/hanzhoe
Summary: After attempting to mutiny against your family in a spectacularly murderous way they sealed away your offensive magic in an untouchable corner of your mind, reachable only by undoing the curse, leaving you with just your portal magics.After attempting to kill his brother and bring about hell on earth (and failing) his powers require bolstering and his plans require time to mature, the one thing he requires to keep on schedule? Portal magic.You reach an agreement.Surprising, considering how disagreeable you both are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [sips an espresso martini] we in this now

You hate the plant life that seeps over the edges of the portal you're holding open. Of course, you didn't think it possible for plants to be disingenuous until the pretty little white flowers that curled around the scarlet edges of the crackling portal started eking toward your crossed ankles as you sat, semi-meditative. When you took a moment to really _watch_ them the leaves undulated and snapped together like teeth and you realised you should have _known_ the demonic realm would find a way to weaponise _daisies_.

Your fingers paused in their constant movement, conducting an invisible orchestra of magic, in order to point one at the flora. It burst into flames.

" _Weeds_." You hissed, returning to your portal maintenance. The wait wasn't much longer, your partner in crime stepping through after only a further ten minutes, an orb clutched in his tan-gloved hand and an expression of what you'd peg as 'grim triumph' on his face. You looked up at him and grinned broadly before you stood, him proffering no hand and you not looking for it. The near constant smile on your face riles him and, as ever, he's annoyed before you even speak. As ever, you plow on regardless.

"So, you got it?" Dusting yourself off as you ask, you lean in a little closer to the hand at his side, peering owlishly at the magical artifact as it snaps and pops with energy. Little sparks dance out from it across his fingertips, but he doesn't seem to mind--either too proud to admit it hurts or genuinely not feeling them. You let out a low whistle and straighten up, closing the portal behind him with a flick of your wrist and some complicated finger movements too fast for the untrained eye to follow.

Ah yes, your magic. The only reason the less liked son of Sparda deigned to associate with you (or so he said), unusually skilled in various ingress magics as you were. Surprisingly you'd leapt at the chance to work with him-- _for_ him, he corrected every time. You ignored it. More suspiciously, you asked for little in return, things he would undoubtedly come across on his expeditions into the demon world without going out of his way.

To say he had 'asked' you about your motives would be to lend him a more reasonable position than he was due, what had actually transpired was a threat delivered along an unsheathed sword, razor-sharp point an eyelash away from piercing your pupil.

You didn't blink and he felt the slightest twinge of appreciation. The twinge mangled itself into something else he didn't dwell on parsing when you'd raised an eyebrow and dryly pointed out he was hardly being forthcoming with his own motives, but if he simply _had_ to know: you needed to lift a curse.

Your reasoning, though he was loathe to admit it and certainly would never _out loud_ , was sound. You had been magically shackled with no combat abilities and all the decidedly occult things you asked him to retrieve required wholesale slaughter of various demons, which he was already planning. With this in mind, he brandished his other hand in front of your face and your eyes widened in a momentary expression of surprise before narrowing into _That Look_ he'd learnt the hard way you put on whenever you were about to become particularly incorrigible.

"Why, Vergil, I didn't think you cared." You poured sauciness into your tone the same way he usually poured scorn and plucked the handful of curiously black roses from his gloved hand, not even wincing when your hand closed into a fist around stems more thorn than not and blood ran down your wrist. You felt the magical binding around another section of your power shatter and held back a smirk as you noted a muscle in his jaw tick while he grit his teeth, on the cusp of anger at your brazenness. _Why_ did you always have to test his patience? If you weren't the sole way he had to expedite his mission a hundred times over he would have decapitated you in an instant, not plucked these demonic flowers from the corpse of a creature of Wrath to keep you with him.

For him.

 _Working_ for him.

Of course it's while he's a touch distracted by his own train of thought and your back is turned while you experiment with your new/old magic that his wounds inexplicably reopen, the abrupt onslaught knocking him both to a knee and shortly after, out. He isn't conscious to see the genuine worry that you spin round with, or the fact that you catch him before he faceplants into the desert sand, fingers still clutched tight around the now-thrumming orb.

\---

You're not sure what possesses you to do it but you run a hand through his hair once you've sat on the coffee table opposite where you've managed to set him, uncomfortably sunken into your sofa, his head leant back against it. Unsurprisingly your fingers come away damp with sweat and sticky with blood from a particularly nasty cut that starts on his forehead and disappears into his hairline, his eyes open sluggishly in response, focussing on you as much as they can before he attempts a trademark frown despite his state. _A concussion, among other things._ You think to yourself as you push his shoulder back into the sofa with uncharacteristic care when he tries to rise.

"I am--" He hisses in pain as he shifts and your lips compress into a thin, unimpressed line that he ignores. "--Perfectly capabl--"

"Don't bullshit. You're not healing. Your nose is broken. You have a cut on your head deep enough for me to see bone. I had to hold some of your intestines inside your body while I warped us." As you speak you tick off your points on your fingers, all business and meeting his annoyed glare with the one you usually use when you're shaking people down for information. "Not to mention you're most likely bruised to hell and back. _Literally._ "  The staring competition continues for long enough that blood drips from his nose onto his clothing, staining the blue while you decide to change tack, letting your own exhaustion colour your voice. "With every ingredient you bring me back, you're saving my life whether you like it or not, Vergil. Of course I'm going to return the favour." You lace your fingers together in your lap and lean forward, inspecting the damage.

Something lances through him, it's visible on his face and in his eyes for a brief moment. Something so intense, remorseful and clearly _personal_ that your breath catches in your throat and you squeeze your hands together to keep from--

 _From what?_ This isn't the first time either of you has shown a moment's worth of vulnerability to the other, always by accident but very deliberately ignored to preserve the status quo. If either of you starts showing empathy _now_ , it'll upset the whole balance of your relationship.

Instead you take it as your turn to frown, the silence dragging on for a further minute before he looks away, the muted wallpaper of your temporary home seemingly holding his attention now. You see his reaction for what it really is, though. Permission, however begrudgingly given. You don't intend to squander it.

"How did you handle it?" He drawls after a few minutes pass in the muttering of incantations and just before you set the pad of your thumb at the base of the gash on his forehead. "It's a Demonic artifact, touching it should kill you." You huff a soft laugh and briefly flick your gaze from the wound to his eyes and back again.

"Disappointed?"

"Perhaps."

" _Lovely_ ." You drag your thumb up and the gash closes behind it like a zipper, he tenses ever so slightly which you diplomatically ignore and instead inspect your handiwork. No scar, perfect healing. _Nice_ . "But to answer your question, I just didn't _handle_ it at all." To prove your point you pause in your poking at the ugly opening across his stomach, non-life-threatening as it is, and wave your fingers in some complex shapes at the orb which proceeds to levitate briefly in an intricate cage of red magic, your magic. "It seems to feed off demonic energy, which explains why your healing fucked up." At that you jam your fingers unceremoniously into the wound, hearing his teeth grit while you pull them back out, muscle and skin knitting back together as you go. "Thankfully, the Hangman's Noose roses you brought back gave me access to my manipulation of organic matter again." You waggled your eyebrows, "Aren't you lucky."

"Hmm." Is his only answer for the length of time it takes you to rise and cross the room, into your dinky open-plan kitchen to wash your hands free of blood and flesh. You watch him press two fingers to the amulet at his neck and think to himself in the reflection of your microwave door before busying yourself with making tea. Your tastes, you've found, remain one of the few things the two of you have agreed on over the past year. "Luck has nothing to do with it." He says finally and you laugh.

"Careful, that sounds dangerously close to faith in my abilities."

" _Faith_ has even less."

"Trust?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to as you set a steaming china cup in front of him and take your own with you to inspect the orb further. Some things are easier to deal with when left unsaid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to carmine and 0philiac for being the single sweetest commenters i've ever gotten on fic and singlehandedly giving me the validation i crave to complete this chapter in a record 8 hours
> 
> anyway this is mostly exposition, but i really need to lay some groundwork and drop some h i n t s for future chapters

Your apartment was nothing to write home about, even if you'd been the sort to be in the habit of corresponding with your family outside of the murder of demonic crows you paid handsomely in charms and trinkets to divebomb all those who crossed the threshold to the family abode.

Petty revenge was a surprisingly effective destressor.

Nevertheless, you'd grown to be fond of it-- the old stained walls added character and a fun guessing game to play when you were bored. Water? Blood? Paint? The previous homeowners weren't exactly ones for interior decorating, leaving the place with bare plaster and floorboards, but your childhood in mansions and manors had superimposed itself nicely over such a blank canvas, even with the juxtaposition on show when you hadn't found anything you liked and just left the original, ratty furnishings in place.

Case in point, the wooden desk you sat at currently, worth ten times what you'd paid for the flat. It was the only piece you'd bargained from your parents after they'd disowned you and you bristled at the memory of debasing yourself to beg for it, you'd pressed that it was for sentimental reasons-- a gift from your Grandfather, the only member who'd understood your drive.

Of course, like all things in your family, it hid more than its fair share of secrets beneath the blackwood panelling and also like your family you were the only one in possession of all of them.

For now, however, you simply sat there, infrequently snacking on the canapés you'd whipped up out of boredom and trying to collate the research both of you had been doing into a comprehensive diagram of the inner workings of the Orb. You'd been poring over notes in both your hand and Vergil's about the effects and limitations of the Orb he'd procured three days ago for the past five hours and were beginning to feel the edges of your vision blurring. Looking at the loose leaves of paper you'd spread across the desk, you noted both of you had started capitalising 'Orb' once you'd discovered its original use as part of a ritual, even if neither of you respected the demon behind it, it leant the whole affair a professional weight it'd lacked previously.

So far what you'd parsed out amounted to a patchy and contradictive history of the Orb, courtesy of Vergil's demonic library excursions, and an exhaustively _long_ but nowhere near _complete_ list of its properties courtesy of your incessant experimentation. You turned to face the object at hand in its new home, hovering and bobbing slightly in a self-sustaining cage of your magic on your sidetable thanks to your discovery that mixing a smidge of powerful demonic blood into the sigil painted under it would create a looping current of magic that ever-fed on itself.

Vergil's face when you'd waggled the ceremonial knife at him along with your explanation that it _had_ to be _his_ blood was the picture of contempt and curiosity, though his pragmatism won out when you gently touched on the Unique Properties of his blood that made it necessary.

Both of you knew that without his human blood, the Orb would have kept consuming his demonic energy until he died, but he wasn't one to admit that humanity had its uses, and despite your love for nettling him you knew around which topics to be tactful enough that neither of you lost out on the mutual benefits of your relationship. He viewed it as a leash, keeping his power bound in the same way yours had been shackled deliberately. However you, no matter how you kept from voicing it, believed it do be quite the opposite and the way his body had interacted with the Orb just vindicated your mindset. His human blood let him exploit loopholes in prophecies and curses alike, let him bypass terms that specifically barred demons, and acted as a failsafe against most conventional forms of both demon _and_ human murder. A veritable Swiss Army Knife.

You should know, after all, your bloodline had a history of trying to exterminate his.

Perhaps that was why he was willing to help you in your quest to exterminate _them_.

You drummed your fingers a moment before reaching up to massage your temples. It'd been a long day and, as ever with long days, your mind ended up cycling continually back to the comforting theatre of imagining the expressions on the faces of your parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, and various aunts and uncles when you finally kicked in the door of their gilded monstrosity and burnt it to the ground. You needed a break, you needed a meal, and you needed a walk.

With that in mind, you stood sharply and swept the loose notes scattered around into a haphazard pile before locking them away in one of the many drawers of your desk, grabbing and slinging your jacket on before storming out of your bedroom, through your living room, and finally out your door. It was when you had your back turned to the apartment block's hallway, muttering high-speed locking wards over your doorknob, that you felt _his_ presence nearby. Very nearby, you found, shooting a glance over your shoulder at Vergil's looming figure in his trademark clothing a stark contrast to the dingy hall with its lone flickering lightbulb. For his part, he simply watched you work your magic on the door with mild interest, waiting until you were done and turned to fully face him to speak.

"We're leaving." He said sharply, ignoring the way your eyebrow hiked into your hairline at his tone.

"We certainly are," You started, gesturing for him to go first, "Though I doubt to the same place."

He fell into step beside you once outside, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword as ever and his lips thinning at your words, radiating his usual level of displeasure.

"You're coming with me." A tone that brooked no argument, and yet here you were, flicking your gaze from the alleyway behind your building you were slowly working your way through to his face while you internally debated the best way to respond. You settled, as ever, for your most reliable way to get him to drop something.

"Ah, a date." You answered solemnly, throwing him a wink, "You should have called ahead, I'd have gotten dressed up."

Your first indication something was wrong was the way he didn't immediately grit his teeth, instead rolling his eyes hard and never straying from facing forward as you both cut through another back-alley, neither of you deigning to walk among the humdrum mortals.

"Just--" His exhale was harsh, through his nose, and laced with long-suffering exasperation as opposed to the more familiar murderous intent. You had to admit, you were curious as to where this was going. "Come with me."

Well. That was the closest to a request you'd ever gotten from him in your year-long partnership, you slowed your pace a touch to let him lead.

"Colour me interested, what've you found?" You'd left your apartment to clear your head of the magical nonsense cluttering it, but if he'd hit a breakthrough you were all ears.

"Something repulsive." Was the nebulous answer he gave before you simultaneously halted, the latest alley you'd traversed smelt like last night's rain and this evening's booze but there was the unmistakable crackle of static electricity in the air and the taste of copper on your tongue. Both indicators of--

" _Demons_ ." Vergil sneered, as though he wasn't constantly assuring you of their superiority. Still, the millky-grey abominations that slunk up out of curdled puddles around you were the sort you both tended to refer to as _vermin_.

He slid his thumb to unsheath his sword by a finger's width while you shook the cold night air out of your hands and crooked your fingers into a complicated gesture.

"They here for you or me?" You asked, casual but on-guard and spinning on your heel to stand loosely back to back with him as he clocked the more spidery demons crawling out of shadows cast by the fire escapes towering above you.

"Regardless, they die."

You rolled your shoulders, followed by your neck and lamented the death of your plan for a nice, relaxing walk.

"Fair enough."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you just gotta [clenches fist] write barely any dialogue
> 
> also this is where we start to really see why i put that tag in for gore warning

When you'd first fought alongside one another it was, to put it lightly, a _shitshow_.

A half-demon assured of his own infallibility, especially when measured against a human and despite a previous failure bruising his pride with a human sorcerer, six months into being cut off from ninety percent of their magic and stewing in resentment that needed an outlet? The more surprising outcome was the fact that neither of you killed the other, by accident or otherwise.

Sure, the shambling, mangled flesh monstrosities that sniffed you out to put you down after your family disowned you and stripped you of the protections that kept previous creations from killing their creators didn't _really_ pose much of a threat to either of you alone and _certainly_ didn't pose a threat when there were _two_ \--

But there was no grace. No synchronicity. No flair to set either of you apart from the common or garden demon-hunters you both relentlessly mocked. Not to mention both of you seethed at the idea of someone else _helping_ do something as _basic_ as _clean-up_.

How far you'd come.

Vergil moves like a dancer, you've found, with a poise and elegance to his fighting that speaks to how long and hard he must have trained at some point in his past. There's an efficacy and deliberate nature to his every move that you've grown to appreciate in time, having watched him cut a man to ribbons so fast you had the chance to see the realisation he was dead dawn in his eyes, an experience you'd never been able to manage yourself. You can hear him behind you, a dark laugh undercutting the discordant shrieks of your prey while he shreds the arachnid enemies up high, leaving the odd, milky, elongated humanoids to you on the ground. The only place you ever hear him express _joy_ is in a fight and times like this you can't fault him for it.

You, however, hadn't been raised to fight. At least, not _intentionally_ . To call your youth 'misspent' would be to undersell it by a long way, putting it simply: this was hardly the first no-holds-barred fist fight you'd found yourself dominating in an alleyway, though it _was_ the first to involve demons. Besides, all the magic you'd been left with were _portals_ , and what damage could _those_ do?

Of _course_ you had to prove them wrong.

So as your partner kicks off from the ground far higher than any human ever could, you pounce forward, rushing the first demon in your path and planting a foot squarely in its emaciated chest before using your fingers like claws to rip tears in the space around you. It flies backwards through one portal behind it and falls out, quartered, from four others. Already you're onto the next one, not bothering to confirm the original kill. This one you keep ahold of by an arm that would be comically noodly if it wasn't dripping a viscous, translucent ivory all over your fingers and the demon attached to it wasn't trying vigorously to consume your flesh, too-many, too-thin, too-sharp teeth gnashing wildly as it flaps and snaps its jaw like a badly-strung puppet. As if in retaliation for making you suffer such disgusting treatment, you wrestle only half of the creature through the next portal, bisecting it at the waist and letting the torso thump to the concrete, making sure to keep its internal organs off your (designer) shoes.

As if on cue, a blue sword-- magical in origin-- slices through the air a hair's breadth from your cheek to embed in the skull of a demon to your left as you use a small portal to mince another on your right. It's taken some practice, but you no longer flinch at the small display of teamwork and no longer do the swords carve a thin line across your skin in the heat of battle.

It's not just _you_ who's been improving.

You barely throw a glance above you, feeling the movement shift more than seeing it and slashing a portal high in response to the unspoken request, half a demonic spider flopping out of the exit a few feet away in answer, eyes missing.

The alley returns to the simple white-noise of soft, misty rain patter within three minutes. You don't even get to finish humming the song you were thinking of to yourself.

With a light step that barely disturbs the bloody water on the ground, Vergil lands finally before wordlessly opening a clenched fist over your own cupped ones, eight eyes like thumbnail-sized black marbles pass between you and you grin, popping them one after another into your mouth like grapes and swallowing without chewing.

In your mind's eye you imagine it laying your hand against a sheet of thin ice and watching your body heat melt it from the epicenter out, another barrier crumbling and you feel the flow of your own magic through your veins once again.You stand proud and take a deep breath of cool night air in barely restrained glee.

"God, I wish I could bottle this feeling." You breathe out, talking less to him and more to yourself but he answered regardless.

"I'd rather you worked on bottling the power behind it." Is his dry reply, scanning the alley behind you before striding off, brief distraction over with. He does this sometimes, half-jokes or amusing asides that you previously hadn't thought him capable of followed by moving on as though nothing had happened. It's almost endearing.

"Wait up." You call over your shoulder before casting an eye out over the carnage in the alleyway and, still riding the high of another unbinding, waving a hand at the demon offal carpeting the concrete. Intestines inch like worms as the scattered flesh rushes to a center point, blood bubbling and misting to shroud the mess forming behind it until--abruptly--it stops.

The pulsating mass you're left with isn't particularly interesting, but you see it with an artist's eye--marble before the sculpting--and with your other hand you send it through a portal to your spare room, smile fixed on your face at the prospect of finally getting stuck in to your life's work once again. The man who made this possible (though not for nothing) appears to have actually listened to your request, opting to watch your little show with a calculatingly interested air that continues when you eventually make your way over to join him.

"Finished?" He asks, genuinely intrigued. You nod and he turns on his heel, this time with you in tow.

"For now, at least." You answer and he _'hmm's_ an acknowledgement. Usually you'd host conversation, or at least as much of it as you could drag out of Vergil, but instead you set your movements to auto-pilot and retreat into your thoughts, planning for your return.

This is why it comes as such a surprise to you when you finally zone back in to realise that whatever discovery he'd made earlier, he was keeping it in an abandoned docks warehouse and you step through the towering doors with an academic eagerness that halts suddenly as you see what it is that the man standing just behind your shoulder has brought you to see.

Your hand flutters to your mouth.

"Oh, you _didn't_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [touches the ground] there was plot here recently, if we keep going we might catch a glimpse of it in the wild

He has, of course.

You don't seem to know what to do with your hands and, Vergil notes, this is the first time he's ever seen you come quite so undone from your usual mellow cheer or benign annoyance. They flick from your mouth, to above your heart, and back to your mouth again not to mention he thinks--but isn't  _ too _ certain he is, after all, only side-eying you-- he sees the beginning of tears glistening at the edges of your eyes too.

You're resolutely not looking at him though, which he's thankful for. He doesn't intend to make this a habit and he'd much rather not have to deal with defining whatever the pinch of emotion he's feeling at seeing this particular plan of his unfold so perfectly is.

For you part, you're captivated by the captive. In the center of the cavernous warehouse is a single, metal chair, a man lashed to it with magical chains in a familiar blue hue around his wrists, ankles, and waist. To you there's no mistaking that black hair and sallow skin.

Your cousin, Maximus. 

Not so  _ great _ now.

Finally one emotion wins out over the rest and while your grin from earlier was on an endorphin rush, the smile that splits your lips this time is one of sincere delight.  _ This might be the single nicest thing anyone's ever done for me _ . You can't help the thought that flashes through your mind, but you do put a pin in your excitement for one moment, the ever-present question  _ Why? _ Surging forward.

"He attempted to ambush me." Vergil answers your unasked question and you reply with a giddy giggle that he pointedly elects to ignore for the sake of your image and his opinion of you.

"He's always been far up his own arse, I'm completely unsurprised." Still, you cock your head a little to the side, watching the semi-unconscious man loll his head against the back of the chair. "Do we know if they're simply after you for you or…?" The issue with having a family that wanted both you and your colleague dead was that sometimes it was hard to parse out accurate motivations for attacks, the demons from earlier another example of this.

Said colleague stands ramrod straight at your shoulder with his sheathed sword held and resting against the ground like a cane in front of him.

"Questioning him is...beneath me." His words scream derision, but there's something of a casual shrug in his voice and you can tell the  _ real _ meaning. Neither of you are wont to give gifts and despite a rocky respect between the two of you, neither of you like to acknowledge your burgeoning friendship either. But you saved his life and he hates to be indebted.

" _ Wonderful _ ." You breathe, clapping your hands together lightly and finally making your way from doorway to chair, bending at the waist to be at eye-level with your cousin before backhanding him with such force his head nearly snaps off his spinal cord like a golf ball off a tee. "Up and at 'em Max!" You barely hold back a cackle, "I've got inquiries to make!"

The man's green eyes crack open a touch, groan falling from his lips as his head droops toward his chest before he finally looks up and makes bleary eye contact with you.

It takes a moment, but familiarity registers in his eyes, followed shortly by the contempt that so often breeds.

" _ You _ ." He spits, admirable, considering his position, but that family backbone runs through all of you. You look forward to ripping his out. Or snapping it. You've yet to decide.

"Me." You answer, voice wrestled into a measured joy.

"I should've known you'd go running to that--" He juts his chin in the direction of Vergil, unmoved from his initial position and simply watching, "--Half-breed pariah the second your father uncovered your schemes." The mild smile plastered to your lips doesn't even twitch but you do bark a disdainful laugh at that, straightening up as you do so.

"Oh  _ please _ . " You flap a hand at him as though this is a dinner party and he's made a salacious joke. "Father didn't  _ uncover _ anything, Livia ratted me out." At the mention of your sister your smile turns to a smirk that sends an involuntary shiver through Maximus and your lilting voice turns stormy. "And don't you worry your handsome little head about it, Max." You grasp his cleft chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to keep eye contact, "She'll get her's soon enough,"

The skin-to-skin contact is what he needs to overpower you, but you watch the fear creep into his gaze as you simply let his feeble attempt wash over you. You're no longer the power-stripped sorcerer whose banishment he crowed at, you're  _ you _ again and getting ever closer to your original strength. He tries to wrench his face away from your touch as he realises just how firm your grip is and just what you're planning when you lean down again, this time level with his ear to whisper intimately. "And if you think he's a  _ 'half-breed' _ ," Your cousin struggles as lava-hot heat builds behind his eyes and from the pads of your fingers, a muffled screech whistling through gritted teeth as his eyeballs turn round in their sockets, bit by agonising bit. "Perhaps you should take a long,  _ hard _ look at yourself."

You start as you mean to go on in this interrogation.

And oh, do you go on.

\---

Dawn has broken by the time you're sated, watery sunlight filtering through clouds and cobwebs to illuminate your work, no longer restricted to the middle of the room.

Maximus is alive, but only because you will it and you only will it to prolong his suffering, inside-out and strung like fairy lights as he is. The tableau you've spent hours creating is gruesome, but in your eyes there's a kind of beauty to it too, comeuppance long-since coming.

Vergil, for his part, hasn't moved an inch, playing the part of a silent observer to full effect and unnerving your cousin more than you in some cases whenever he attempted to scream for help or beg for mercy. You toss the still-beating heart of your relative in one hand like a tennis ball, catching it each time as you saunter back over to and past the blue clad man, inclining your head a miniscule amount in what will be the only acknowledgement of the gift he's given you. You're beyond him and out the door when his lips tug into the slightest smirk at what you've left behind which is just as well because neither of you would recognise the look in his eye for what it really is: pride.

Though whether it's in himself for his gamble in seeking you out last year for your potential, or in you for exceeding that potential he'd estimated was a train of thought he didn't bother pursuing, instead casting a final look over the warning you've left for those who come looking for any of the three of you.

Torture was tedious and something he generally eschewed in favour of threats or a clean execution, but you had elevated it to an art form and he could appreciate the dedication to your craft.

"Did the worm have anything useful to say amidst the screams?" Comes the drawl to your right as you stand, looking out over the docks to the ocean. You keep your eyes on the washed-out sunrise and barely hesitate in your one-handed magical conducting.

"A few hints here and there, nothing detailed." The heart still bounces in your other hand and you sigh heavily. "It's only to be expected, I get the feeling he struck out on his own for this ill-fated attempt."

"Foolishness. Surely he knew he wouldn't stand a chance."

"Rashness, most likely. Far be it from me to extol my own virtues--" A soft snort from the man at your side, you bite back a laugh, "--But my banishment left quite the power vacuum and he's always been eager to take my place." Two fist-sized portals finish manifesting in front of you at chest level and you finally stop juggling the major organ in favour of dropping it into one. You hold your hand under the other and wait for it to fall through while you speak. "Max probably thought the tomes were exaggerating the power of Sparda's bloodline, much to his detriment." The heart flopped through the second portal and into your hand as if to punctuate the end of your sentence, though it was now hard, white, and very clearly calcified. You turned to face Vergil and handed it to him with little ceremony. He took it without a word and you snickered, both of you aware of its use. "I know it's hardly  _ bottling _ it, but needs must as the Devil Arm drives, hmm?"

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr over [ Here](http://ofrawrites.tumblr.com/). i take requests and post smaller bits i don't feel warrant AO3 yet.


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